


Monachopsis

by thewintertrash



Series: Mnemonic [5]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Gen, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Minor Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-12-04 11:36:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11554392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewintertrash/pseuds/thewintertrash
Summary: mon·a·chop·sis (n.) the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.-Moving into Avengers Tower was… surreal, to say the least.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hO SHIT GUYS. it's been over a year and yet here i am. an actual, living, breathing update. it's surely a sign, my dudes.
> 
> tbh this story has stumped the hell out of me bc i really didn't plan farther than the first part, and then i realized i needed a plot and well...... i had a hard time thinking about how i wanted to end this.
> 
> good news is that i FIGURED IT THE FUCK OUT and now need to get this story out of my head. i can't wait for the next part since it'll answer some questions yall have. but for now...... have memelord steve!

stevegr88:

> Hey everyone.
> 
> So, I know a lot of you have noticed my sudden disappearance these last couple of weeks (if the nearly 400 messages in my superwiki and tumblr inbox are anything to go by O_O yikes!!) but I had a good reason! That I can’t actually share completely, even if I wanted to.
> 
> But I’ll share as much as I can and then start looking through your messages, partly because I feel bad about ignoring all of you, and partly because I really, _really_ need the distraction right now. Sorry if I don’t get to everyone personally, but I’ll try to answer as many as I can. If you don’t see yours answered it’s because I already answered it in this post or in a previous question.
> 
> **FAQ about where the $#@% have I been?!**
> 
> **Where the $#@% have you been?!**  
>  The hospital. Yes, the hospital. Again. I can hear your collective groaning from here.
> 
> **Are you okay???**  
>  I’m fine
> 
> **No I’m serious are you okay?!**  
>  YES I’M OKAY!
> 
> **Why are you in the hospital??  
>  ** A lot of things. More specifically, I had pneumonia and a broken arm. Less specifically, it’s been a wild ride.
> 
> **What happened? Why did you disappear?**  
>  I can’t tell you. Yes, I am serious. I’m all right now (well getting there) but like I said. It’s been a wild ride. **EDIT**: I don’t care how many people ask about it, I CAN’T TELL YOU. STOP MESSAGING ME ABOUT IT.**
> 
> **Are you on hiatus now?**  
>  Maybe. I have no idea, honestly. I’ve had a sort of dire emergency happen and I’m technically homeless right now (I say ‘technically’ because I have somewhere to stay) and my life’s been completely uprooted and tossed around like I’m the dice in Yahtzee. Where does that leave me? Who even $#@%ing knows.
> 
> I wish I could be more specific, fellas. It’s been rough these past few weeks. I really do appreciate your kind words even if I don’t respond. Also, since this has been getting asked, @msmarvelsno1fan started a forum here where you can post pictures of get-well cards and the like. Maybe eventually I’ll set up a PO box so you can send me stuff directly, but until then, that will have to do.
> 
> The thing is, even if I could tell you guys everything, I don’t really know if I could describe what’s happened to me these past few weeks. It’s not often I don’t know what do or am at a complete loss for words, but here I am. I guess we’ll just have to see where the dice land.
> 
> I’ll update as I can.

~*~

Moving into Avengers Tower was… surreal, to say the least.

The most basic being a) Steve was in _Avengers Tower_ and was going to _live here_ and b) that SHIELD actually followed through with their promise and now he _and_ Bucky were living here.

He’s still not sure how the interrogation went. He hadn’t asked, partly because it seemed private, and mostly because he knew nobody would tell him anyway. That’s fine. It wasn’t like that bothered him or anything, being left out of the loop like that. Whatever. He should just be happy that they were here and focus on Operation: Save Bucky and not worry about whatever Bucky had discussed with Romanov. It was all for the best, really.

No, actually, what he really meant was _fuck that bullshit_. God he hated it _so much_ how nobody thought to tell him what was going on. If anything, he was the _best_ person to tell stuff to! Barton said so himself – people always underestimate him. In a skyscraper full of the most technologically advanced weaponry and Iron Man and super spies, nobody looked twice at him, if they noticed him at all. And on top of that, he’s good at keeping secrets.

_Cool it, Rogers. Just be grateful you’re here in the first place._

Because he was grateful. He _was._ It’s just… he’s an important player here, wasn’t he? He wasn’t asking that Romanov and Barton tell him everything about everything, but he was owed knowing about the stuff that his life was staked on. Maybe. That wasn’t asking too much, right?

He sat on the huge sleek ‘L’ shaped couch in one of the three living rooms on the floor and twiddled his thumbs, because he was able to do exactly zero useful things at the moment.

And, despite everything, he was quite bored.

Every room (and there were many) seemed to be right out of a home design magazine. It carried the same air that museums had, where the space should be admired from a distance and not touched. The kitchen came pre-stocked with an enormous amount of food, which he wasn’t sure if he’d have to repay for it when he left like a mini fridge in a hotel room. He certainly hoped not, anyway, since the food in the fridge alone probably cost more than his rent and Barton had already pilfered a majority of it.

He didn’t even get the luxury to pack or unpack his own things, since that was done for him before he arrived. His skin crawled at the thought of someone actually pawing through his stuff. It wasn’t much, didn’t even fill up a quarter of the giant walk-in closet, but it was _his_. So he did spend a good chunk of time of going through and reorganizing everything, even if it was just to change the order of his socks. Maybe that was petty. He found he didn’t really care.

Steve also went to set up his memorial, but stopped halfway. His mom’s stuff was easy, but Bucky’s… Bucky was technically alive now, but the flag was too sacred, too important to him. He sat for a long time on the floor in front of his dresser, the contents from his duffle bag placed carefully around him, as he tried taking everything in. He even prayed for his parents, something he hadn’t properly done in years but felt like now was a good time to start. If you pressed some days, he’d say he wasn’t sure if there was a God. Other days he’d claim he was spiritual but hated the idea of organized religion. It depended on how much Catholic guilt he’d relapsed into recently.

His mom believed, right up until the end. _“It’s okay, Steve,”_ she said, _“I’m going with God. He is good, and both He and I will watch over you.”_

Yeah, well, God didn’t make up for the cold empty space in his heart that she took with her. Or the one Bucky took. The one he still had.

He might be back physically, but whoever was in the room next to him wasn’t Bucky. He knew that logically. Even if Bucky hadn’t lost his memories, he’d still be a totally different person. Who wouldn’t be? He’d been left for dead and tortured for five years. And even without that, people change. Steve knew he had changed. Five years was a long time for anyone. Bucky dying took a lot out of him, he wasn’t going to deny that.

And now Bucky, for better or for worse, was in the next room over. Again, logically he knew that Bucky had changed, and yet still he longed for the Bucky of seven years ago to waltz out that door and crack a stupid joke. He tried to choke that little flame of hope because it was going to crush him just like it did the first time.

How many times had Steve imagined Bucky waltzing through his apartment door? How many times did his heart skip a beat because he was absolutely sure that those were Bucky’s footsteps coming down the hall? How many times had nearly given himself whiplash because he thought he saw Bucky out of the corner of his eye on the street?

It took a long, long time for the flame to be snubbed out, before he realized that by keeping it alive it was really just burning him from inside out, before he realized the smoke of half flung dreams was really just slowly, agonizingly, smothering him to death.

So he decided he was going to cut the crap and get this over sooner rather than later. It’s the main reason he spent so long on the floor until his aching back got too bad to ignore. Bucky of the present didn’t need this pressure of being constantly compared to the Bucky of the past, since he was likely already doing that himself. Well, if he remembered enough of the past Bucky to compare to, anyway.

In the end his three pieces of the old Bucky stayed in his room. He hung up Bucky’s jacket in his closet, already preparing the excuse for why he hadn’t given it back, and preparing for Bucky to see right through him. The flag went on the dresser with the pictures. It didn’t have to be symbolizing his death, per say, but it could represent all that Bucky had lost and had given up. He took a long moment to thumb over Bucky’s tags like he’d done a million times before.

He imagined in the future him and Bucky having a moment, Steve pulling them out and telling Bucky how he’d kept them safe, and now he could return them so Bucky always had a little reminder of who he was. Bucky would give sort of a small smile, just a quirk of his lips, and Steve could see so clearly Buckly delicately handling the tags before slipping them over his head. Or maybe he’d give them back to Steve. Maybe he’d say “you’ve been doing such a good job of remembering for me,” and Steve would duck his head bashfully, because “it was the least I could do, Buck,” and then Bucky would slip the tags back over Steve’s head which would bring them closer together, and he’d place his hand on Steve’s jaw and lean in—

Nope — no no no no — not going there _cut it out Steve,_ he scolded himself and slipped Bucky’s tags into the bedside drawer. _Get a fuckin’ hold of yourself. It isn’t like that and it won’t ever be._

So once the heavy of weight of the first day came to an end, the rest were pretty anticlimactic. Okay, so it was only Day 5, but still. He hadn’t seen Bucky since before his interrogation, which picked apart his nerves and left his fingernails bitten and bloody. He decided since he actually had a full kitchen (and a full fridge) he should take advantage of it and started cooking different things, always making enough for Bucky and Romanov or Barton if they were there.

It became a routine of him replacing cold, untouched food with food that would soon also become cold and untouched outside Bucky’s door, but that’s okay. He always put them away as leftovers. Bucky would get hungry eventually, right?

Steve tried not to look too much into it.

Cooking could only take so much time of his (very long) days, and left him still bored and still sitting on the couch. He’d already made dinner, put most of it out for Bucky and eaten a little of the portion he saved for himself. It was only seven-thirty and he was too tired to walk endlessly around the rooms like usual but not tired enough to sleep, and frankly he wasn’t used to it being so damn quiet all the time. Bucky (who might or might not even be in his room) didn’t make a sound. Romanov worked in one of the four offices when she was there and Steve was not about to interrupt whatever she was doing. She might just put that old saying to good use and kill him if he saw something. Barton was around, mostly only when she wasn’t, but he usually used his time to sleep in one of the bedrooms. Maybe he did work too, but Steve was sure he heard the Game of Thrones theme song one time when he passed by, so probably not.

He lay down on the couch and stared at the ceiling for a while. He reached over his head and grabbed one of the tasteful, meticulously placed throw pillows to make it live up to its name. Hearing the soft thump on the floor gave him way more satisfaction than he knew it should. For extra emphasis, he rubbed his socked feet on the fabric.

Maybe he should text Sam. He didn’t want to seem clingy though. How many texts in one day counted as clingy, anyway? Sam was nice. Sam was the one normal thing in his life right now. Sam liked to talk about baseball and hating the Miami Heat team and about trashy daytime TV that Steve tried to deny he watched. Sam called him out on it, but Steve felt a little too much relief when Sam admitted he kept up with the Kardashians as well.

Hey, there were only so many times you can rewatch episodes of Star Trek before you say ‘fuck it’ and binge watch shit like Duck Dynasty for three days straight. Let him live.

He was so bored of watching TV though. And bored of drawing and nothing coming out right. And bored of—

_“Mr. Rogers?”_

Steve nearly jumped out of his skin. The ceiling was talking to him.

_“I do apologize sir, I did not mean to startle you.”_

Right. That was JARVIS, because Tony Stark built himself an actual functional A.I. who didn’t want to take over the world (yet). Steve sat up fully, feeling kind of silly talking to an empty room. He had spent over an hour on Day 2 trying to find speakers or the source of the voice, but has thus far come up with nothing.

“Uh, no, JARVIS, it’s fine. What is it?”

_“Mr. Stark has requested that you to join him in his lab.”_

He wondered if there was a camera hidden somewhere as well and if JARVIS could understand the ‘what the fuck’ expression on his face. What part of that sentence made any sense?

“Uh, can I know why?”

_“He has a favor to ask you, sir.”_

Steve didn’t know why he was surprised. His life made so little sense at this point that _Tony Stark_ aka _Iron Man_ wanting to ask him a favor should make complete sense. Be expected, even. Although he had no idea what he could possible offer him. What can you offer to a man who already has everything?

On that note, he hoped they would never become close enough to celebrate each other’s birthdays, if only to spare himself the hell of trying to figure out what to get Stark as a present.

“Okay, sure, lemme just…” he trailed off as he looked at the oversized sweats and thick, fuzzy socks he wore. “Is there something specific I should wear?”

_“He’s not currently working with any dangerous chemicals, so I suggest nothing you care about getting ruined and close toed shoes.”_

“…Alright. I’ll just change real quick.” Sounds like chemistry class. But, you know, with Tony Stark. What was Steve getting himself into? “When does he want to me to come up?”

_“Mr. Stark has requested you come at your earliest convenience.”_

“Right.”

Oh boy. Steve worked (well, had worked) in customer service, so he really knew that was code for “get your ass here _now._ ” Stark was supposed to be some bigheaded selfish prick if the media was to be believed and now Steve was going to meet the big man face to face.

He changed into jeans and two old, worn sweaters and tried not to think too much about what Stark was supposed to be. It was the media’s job to spin things into scandals and blow things way out of proportion even if they didn’t have all — or any — of the facts. So Steve would go to Stark’s lab and introduce himself like a normal person and everything would be fine.

Right, he just shouldn’t think about that the only reason that Bucky was out of that cell was because Stark allowed them to live here. Nope. Definitely not thinking that he’s one of the most powerful men on the planet. And Steve was _definitely_ not thinking that if he made just one mistake Stark could completely destroy everything Steve was trying to do and completely ruin Bucky’s chances to reenter society and throw them to the wolves and then who would help them after that? Fury wouldn’t trust them to be here and Bucky would go back into that cell or worse and—

Breathe. He needed to breathe.

He stepped into the elevator that JARVIS had waiting for him and left his stomach behind as it slowly scaled the floors. Should he have combed his hair? Brushed his teeth? When was the last time he even showered?

The elevator stopped both too soon and not soon enough and Steve decided last minute to do this like he always did — by the seat of his pants. He stuck his chin up, squared his jar, and stepped out into the lab, which happened to be owned by Tony Stark. AKA Iron Man. You know. Just in case you forgot.

He followed the sound of rock music and Stark’s voice further into the lab, creeping along like if he looked at anything wrong it might blow up. And he really didn’t want to blow anything up, because those cars looked _expensive_. He found the man himself bent over a table with large magnifying goggles on, sparks lighting up from where his hands were working. Mountains and clusters of nuts, bolts, stray computer hardware, pieces and parts of different metals and more tools than Steve could imagine uses for surrounded him, obscuring exactly what he was working on.

He looked busy. Maybe he shouldn’t bother him? No, that was stupid, Stark had asked him to come. He should just go up and say hello and introduce himself like a normal person. Stark was certainly dressed like a normal person, looking more like a dirty car mechanic than genius billionaire at the moment, even if his hair and goatee were still perfect.

“You! Hey, You!”

Steve jumped with his heart in his throat, ready to spit out explanations and punch something if need be. It took him a moment before he realized Stark wasn’t even talking to him.

“I told you to bring me the _four_ nanometer torque wrench,” he said, tapping the tool against a large, black robot with one extendable arm. “Does this look like four nanometers to you? No, this is _five._ Go get me the right one before I decide to melt you down for scrap metal.”

Steve watched in bewilderment as the robot grabbed the wrench and scooted away to the multitude of cabinets lining the far wall. Now that Steve was looking, he saw another robot honest-to-God sweeping the floor with what looked like an actual dunce cap on his head.

 _What the fuck_ , Steve thought, before walking up to the table.

“Mr. Stark?”

The man himself turned, lifting the goggles off his eyes to rest on his head, leaving angry red marks where they had sat on his cheeks and nose. Steve couldn’t help glancing down to the blue light shining through his shirt as he pointed a soldering gun at Steve.

“Who are you, and what are you doing in my lab?” he asked, confused but unconcerned.

“My name is Steve Rogers. You asked for me to come here?”

“No I didn’t.”

_“Yes you did, sir, I can verify. Would you like me to play the feed back?”_

“Huh. That’s right,” he mumbled to himself. “No, not necessary J. Do you remember what I wanted him up here for?”

_“I believe it was to solve the problem of the head, sir.”_

“Oh!” Stark’s face lit up. “The _head_.”

He rolled on his stool to a different table and rummaged around through the pieces. Steve’s brain was scrambling to figure out what the hell the ‘head’ meant, but was only coming up with useless and incredibly unhelpful dick and bathroom jokes.

“You!” —and this time Stark was actually addressing Steve— “You’re an artist, right?”

“Well, I—”

“Excellent. I need you to paint a face on this,” he said, tossing a small object at Steve who fumbled and nearly dropped it.

Steve understood what he was talking about once he realized Stark had tossed him what looked like a _doll’s_ head. He wasn’t closer to understanding the situation, but baby steps.

“I mean, sure, I guess, do you want any face on it or—”

Stark put his goggles on and waved his hand to the side, where a screen appeared out of nowhere. “This guy. Justin Hammer. I want you to paint his face on that doll so I can attach it to _this_.” He held up a mini robot skeleton, which was about eight inches tall and had one leg missing.

He’d like to say this was the weirdest thing anyone’s ever asked him to paint, but he took commissions from the internet.

“Okay,” Steve said, watching the large robot from before wheel over and hand Stark a different tool. _Just roll with it, Rogers._ “I have some paints and bru—”

“Over there,” Stark gestured over his shoulder without looking up from the parts. “They should be fine. I just told JARVIS to get whatever would work on polycarbonate.”

Steve walked over to the table behind him Stark and his jaw dropped.

Now, Steve spent a lot of time drooling over paint and art supplies online, filling his cart with everything he wanted and then shedding a small tear when he looked at his bank account and closed the browser window.

But there, in perfect display, was what looked like the entire Michael Harding oil paint collection. And he was talking over a hundred different colors, all in 40ml tubes which, and Steve knew his oil paint, could easily have cost about five _hundred_ dollars. There were eight different kinds of drying agents next to a large set of Silver Brush brand brushes, and holy shit, one brush could be twenty dollars.

This was… this was _overkill_. All for a little doll’s head that was smaller than his palm. Like, Steve had oil paint and brushes downstairs that would have worked just fine, really, this was just a waste of money.

He glanced around at the decadent cars and technology in Stark’s lab. Right. Some people had more than enough money to waste. Steve held his tongue about better uses for money like that and pulled up another stool. He got to work setting out his paints and choosing what brushes he needed, along with picking the drying agent that would work the fastest. The head kind of looked more like it belonged on a Ken doll than it did one of Stark’s robots, though it was sans paint job, hair, and mouth.

It didn’t stop his mind from racing around the unanswered questions, some of them pertaining to why Tony Stark was building an animatronic doll of some random guy, but most of them wondering why he wanted Steve to do it. Obviously money wasn’t an issue. Maybe it was just convenient?

Steve primed the doll head, which was harder that it sounds when you only had one functioning arm and it was round object, and flinched when it started moving on its own.

“Oh good, it works. I mean, I built it, so of course it works, but it’s always nice to get constant reassurance of your technical genius,” Stark said, rolling over to where Steve was sitting.

So there _was_ a seam for the mouth, Steve just couldn’t see until it opened. And well, maybe this was weird but once it moved, it finally jogged Steve’s memory.

“Wait — Justin Hammer? Like, of HAMMER Industries?” Steve asked, looking between the picture on the screen and the small robot in Stark’s hand. “Isn’t he your rival? Why are you making a robot-doll of one of your rivals?”

Stark took a deep breath. “Now _that_ , my friend, is an excellent question. It all started when…”

~*~

“…and so since he won’t stop spamming me and my employees with shit about working with him and start making weapons for the government again, I’m sending him a small Hammerbot to tell him to go fuck himself. Poetic, don’t you think?” Stark finished an hour later. “Don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve said, relieved that his monologue was finally over and fully regretting ever asking. He’d tried to pay attention the whole time, but he definitely cut in and out. At one point Stark had gone off on a tangent about something that happened in 1995, and Steve could barely remember being seven years old, let alone relate to working with the Russians on landing the US shuttle on their space station.

“So I’m thinking,” Stark said, holding up the robot that now had all its appendages attached minus the head, “that I make it do a little dance. I’m thinking it needs it own song about, like, big heads and small dicks. Ha, like, ‘the only big head around here is on my shoulders, because 75% of my dick is shoved into my personality.’ Something really condescending.”

“Like that one scene from Shrek.”

“Like what?”

“You know, when Shrek and Donkey are at castle, and the song plays.”

Stark turned to look at him like Steve had grown a second head.

“Haven’t you ever seen Shrek? You know, the movie with the big green ogre and Michael Myers?”

“I’m sorry, I had better things to do with my time than rot my brain with terrible movies.”

Steve’s ears burned, but he determinedly held his ground. “JARVIS,” he said, “will you please play the scene from Shrek when he and Donkey visit Lord Farquaad’s castle?”

For one horrifying moment, Steve thought that JARVIS, despite having done everything he’d asked up until then, would decide that now he wouldn’t listen. JARVIS pulled through, much to Steve’s relief, and even knew exactly what scene Steve was talking about.

Steve’s eyes flitted back and forth between the screen and Stark’s face, whose expression was slowly becoming closer to Shrek’s at the end of the song. This, objectively, would be hilarious if Steve wasn’t concerned he was about to kicked out of the lab simply because he wasn’t cool enough and watched a lot of media that wasn’t up to Stark’s standards.

Shrek stopped Donkey from playing the song again, and JARVIS cut the feed. Steve realized, suddenly, that was probably one of the weirdest scenes to play without giving any context whatsoever. No wonder Stark looked so perplexed.

“But, like,” Steve said, breaking the silence and trying to save his ass, “you could have the Hammerbot bend over and, uh, shoot flames out his ass or something.”

Stark turned his head to Steve, now with a slightly maniacal look in his eye. Steve didn’t quite think through what would happen if Stark actually _listened_ to him.

~*~

“HIT THE DECK!”

Steve dove to the ground, covering his face against the heat of the explosion. The Hammerbot shot across the room and slammed into a cabinet, denting the side. Miraculously, Steve hadn’t spilled any of the very expensive scotch he was drinking. He wasn’t even really sure when that even appeared in his hand — hell, he’d never even _had_ scotch before — but he was almost done with the glass.

Stark sat up from his landing spot a couple yards away. “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said, before Dum-E sprayed him with a fire extinguisher.

Steve couldn’t help it the bit of laughter that escaped. He blamed the alcohol, but Stark just looked so dead inside in that moment.

“Maybe we should try glitter instead?” Steve suggested. “I mean, you don’t actually want to kill him.”

“Says you,” he mumbled and took off his shirt, the foam sloshing to the floor. “Glitter?”

Steve snuck a peak at Stark’s well-defined back muscles (he was an artist, he was allowed to appreciate the view, alright) and explained, “Well, it is the herpes of art supplies. Once that shit gets all over his office, good luck to ever getting rid of it. A good way to leave your mark without, you know,” he gestured to the dented cabinet, “actually leaving a mark.”

Stark turned in the middle of wiping off the extinguisher foam, giving Steve an unbridled view of the arc reactor in his chest and the scarring around it.

“You are a devious, wicked minded individual, you know that?” He pulled a new shirt over his head and smirked. “I think this is a start of a truly beautiful relationship, Rogers.”

Steve pretended the flush on his cheeks was from the alcohol.

~*~

_“…and unlike anything I do — this robot tech is state of the art — especially when I turn around — and take a great big FART!”_

The Hammerbot turned around and bent over exposing a gaping hole in his ass. Steve ducked purely on instinct, having learned from the first time. Nothing came out and Stark imitated a small explosion erupting out of the robot’s ass for the full effect.

“And then the glitter explodes everywhere! It’s gonna be great — JARVIS, great job on cutting together his speeches into a song, it makes it much more authentic with his voice doing the singing.”

_“You know I live to please you, sir.”_

Steve marveled at the way JARVIS managed to sound so sincere and sarcastic at once. Stark didn’t appear to notice as he turned to Steve with a flourish.

“Well?”

Steve yawned.

“I’m so glad this miracle of robotics is impressing you so much.”

“No, no it’s—” Steve cracked another big yawn. “It’s good I’m just… what time is it?”

_“Current time is 00:47AM.”_

“Oh, really?” Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d been up past midnight. “I should… I should probably go to bed.”

“Now? But the night is still so young! There are discoveries to be made, explosions to go off accidentally…” Stark held up the bottle of scotch and raised his eyebrows, “alcohol to be drunk!”

“Thank you, but I should turn in. It’s late.” Steve had already had two glasses of the scotch anyway. He was kind of drunk. Wasn’t his fault he was such a lightweight, all right? Lay off.

Ugh. Drinking while dead tired just made him testy. Well, testier than usual. He should just go to bed.

Stark tried to cajole him to staying longer, but Steve politely (mostly politely, anyway) declined his offer.

“Fine. Go to bed, you old man. I didn’t want your company anyway,” Stark said, sounding like a petulant child. He returned to poking around at the myriad of robot parts on his worktable. “At least take your stuff with you before you go.”

“My stuff?” Steve asked, patting down his pockets. He hadn’t brought anything up here, had he? He thought he’d left his phone back down in his room.

“Your stuff, duh,” Stark said, gesturing over to the paints and brushes.

“Those aren’t mine.”

“Yes they are.”

“But you bought those.”

“And your point is?”

“That those are yours.”

“The hell am I supposed to do with oil paints?”

“Learn to paint?”

Stark leveled him an exasperated look. “Rogers, they’re yours now. You used them, finders keepers no take-backsies.”

“But—”

“Nope! No take-backsies! Dum-E?”

Dum-E rolled past Steve and Stark with a box in his arm over to the paints, where he sat the box down and started grabbing the paints off the table and setting them inside. Steve was pretty sure he was hallucinating at this point. That scotch must’ve been stronger than he thought.

“I can’t take them.”

“Why not? I’m literally packaging them up for you. Well, Dum-E is. You know what I mean.”

“I can’t—” Shame curled in Steve’s stomach as he bit out his next words. “I can’t pay you back. I can’t _afford_ them.”

Stark looked up from the tech in his hands to stare at Steve.

“You’re not supposed to pay me back for them. They’re _your_ payment.”

“Payment for what?”

“The head! Jesus, it’s like talking to a brick wall. You did work for me, so I’m paying you. In art supplies. Congrats, you won!”

Steve blinked at Stark. “That’s nearly a thousand dollars worth of art supplies,” he said.

“So?”

“ ‘So’?!” Steve repeated, eyebrows flying up his forehead. “I can’t — I can’t take it. It’s too much for what I did.”

Stark dropped his tools, groaning loudly. He got up and stomped over to where Dum-E was still meticulously placing the tubes of paint into the box. Stark scooped up the remaining supplies and dumped them inside, before pickup of the box and unceremoniously shoving it at Steve.

“I bought it, I decide how much it’s worth and what to do with it.”

Steve let the box his chest and arm cast and didn’t move. Stark jiggled it and raised his eyebrows again, pushing an unwilling Steve to take it.

In the end, Stark won purely for the fact that Steve couldn’t be rude or outright physical. Plus, Stark had to be pretty good about getting people to do what he wanted. He was a businessman who helped run a Fortune 500 Company, after all. Steve needed to watch out for him in the future.

Steve didn't make it back down to his floor until half past one in the morning due to the argument. He was dead tired and more than a little drunk and he knew he was going to regret it in the morning. He didn't even know how it happened. Stark's secret power had to be making sure everyone got drunk.

The apartment was dark and quiet when he tiptoed inside. He might as well be breaking and entering some random home, since the feeling of not belonging had yet to abate. He wasn't cool enough to be a spy though. Romanov was cool. Steve wasn't. He was like, the opposite of cool. Like anti-freeze.

He snorted at his own stupid joke. Because against all reason, he was in _Avengers Tower_. He had just gotten drunk with _Iron Man._ What the fuck.

Well, Steve had gotten drunk. Stark easily had twice the amount of alcohol Steve did and it barely seems to phase him. And Steve really shouldn't have been drinking in the first place, not in combination of the meds he was taking and definitely not on an empty stomach. Whoops. His body was definitely going to hate him for this in a few hours.

“You're drunk.”

Steve froze, because that wasn't Romanov. He squinted, but he had always had shitty night vision and couldn't make out Bucky's form in the dark. He hadn't even realized anyone was there.

“Uh,” he said eloquently and blinked, widening his eyes like he could will himself better eyesight. “No I'm not.”

Hearing Bucky's voice was like a cold slap to the face and did help to sober Steve up a little. He didn't know where to go from here, though. He wasn't even sure where Bucky _was._

He cautiously stepped forward, trying to remember the layout of the room and tripped over an end table for his efforts. He could feel the judgment of Bucky's gaze even if he couldn't see him. Steve cleared his throat.

“Okay, maybe a little, but that was mostly because I can't see anything.”

Steve waved his hands and found the wall, letting it guide him down the hall. He should find a light switch.

“Bucky?” he whispered, the night swallowing the word. He couldn't hear anything over the pounding of his own heart.

Now he doubted his own sanity. Had he hallucinated Bucky's voice? Did that really happen? He hadn’t gotten _that_ drunk. Right?

He stumbled his way into his room, the good mood of the night sucked away and leaving him thoroughly unsettled. He brushed his teeth because the last thing he wanted was to taste that in the morning, dressed in his thick pajamas, and collapsed on the bed. He passed out almost immediately.

~*~

It was only a few hours later when his stomach decided to voice its complaints and he emptied the last of its contents into the on suite bathroom. He hated puking, envying those who said it made them feel better afterwards. It didn't matter. He still felt like shit. He wondered why he even bothered trying.

He pulled himself off the ground and wiped down his face and mouth, exhausted and hungover. He should go to get a glass of water, but the idea of trying to make it to the kitchen to do so was an insurmountable effort.

But there, on his nightstand, was a large glass of water and two ibuprofen, since that was the only medication easy enough on his stomach.

 

He felt like crying suddenly. He'd forgotten about his encounter with Bucky last night. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed and sipped as much of the tepid water as he could stand without puking again.

He cradled the two pills in his hand like baby birds. _This_ is why he bothered.

Steve sunk back down underneath the covers, clutching the bedspread in between his fists, repeating it like a mantra.

_This is why. This is why. Bucky is still here. This is why._

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've read and reread all of your comments on here and i'm honestly so grateful for all of you. and guilty that i kept you waiting for so long. anyway. you're all amazing and i love u all
> 
> i'm over at agentscarters.tumblr.com!!!!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this would have been out way sooner but then overwatch took over my life and then school started and basically life's been terrible. 
> 
> anyway
> 
> i'm glad that people liked the little break with tony!!! mostly because things do not get better in this chapter. or the next for that matter. it's basically all hurt no comfort sorry not sorry 
> 
> i tagged minor character death but its for an already established dead character who got a little spotlight jsyk

In the next week, the only thing different in Steve’s routine was the second time he made it up to Stark’s lab. Otherwise, it was all the same.

Steve had always been a morning person, much to Bucky’s chagrin. He tried to keep to a semi normal schedule as much as he could, though he really didn’t have much reason to. He could’ve looked into it further, like his routine was the only thing he could control therefore he kept to it, but that would admit that there was a larger problem at bay.

It was okay. Steve was okay. He would continue being okay _._ He had to.

Bucky was here. Bucky was alive. Bucky would remember Steve someday. He had to.

So Steve woke up at 8:30AM, like usual, unable to stay in bed any longer. His mind, scratchy and restless, rejected anymore time lying down. His body protested, still aching and creaking, an old house unable to settle. He dragged himself to the kitchen after changing and brushing his teeth, where he stared and willed the fridge to cook breakfast.

Over the years, being desperately poor meant Steve had learned to live on little food. He’d once gone five days surviving on nothing but a bag of trail mix and two cups of plain rice, since he didn’t even have a soy sauce packet to flavor it with. So Steve knew hungry well and had gotten worryingly good at ignore the pain clawing at his insides. It was just a fact of life, like the sky being blue and the train cars stinking like piss and sweat.

Now he had a large stainless steal fridge staring back at him filled with more food than he’d ever seen in life outside of a grocery store. And not just a regular, _run of the mill_ fridge either. Oh, heavens no. This fridge had a touch pad that let you customize everything, from temperature to locking it with a passcode and thumbprint scanner. That function tempted him so, if only to watch Barton struggle. But because he was an Adult and couldn’t guarantee when Barton would try to open the door he refrained. Barely.

It also had a section where you could order more of this or less of that and if you didn’t want something you had the option to remove it from this fridge. This meant that the shelf or drawer would sink back into the fridge and come out with new food. There must be some sort of conveyer or backdoor system in the walls that changed the food, Steve mused. He could also set a certain date and time that he wanted an item and bam, there it would be.

Steve didn’t want to admit it, but this was the _coolest damn thing he’d ever seen._ A self-restocking fridge! Holy shit! It was every single one of his dreams, dreams he didn’t even knew he had, come true. He didn’t have to trudge through a foot of snow or in the pouring rain to bring home a meager bag of groceries. It got delivered to _him._

He felt drunk on power. The only reasons he didn’t spend hours at a time playing with it were, well, firstly it was a fridge, and secondly there must a human element in there somewhere. He didn’t want the staff here to inadvertently hate him simply because he seemed indecisive on whether or not he wanted grapes or which of the dozen or so jams they had available.

Still. It was pretty damn cool. He could also order fully prepared food, but that felt wasteful and made him uncomfortable. He hoped that Stark paid his workers a living wage, but what did he really know? Besides, Lord knows that he had enough time on his hands to do his own cooking.

He allowed himself fifteen minutes to glare at nothing in particular while the coffee cooled enough to drink. Steve really shouldn’t be drinking coffee, since at this point one of the few illnesses he’d scooted by was a stomach ulcer, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t develop. Couldn’t exactly afford to go to the doctor and get them checked and probably couldn’t be bothered to treat them accordingly even if he did. So he scrolled through recipe blogs, sipping his coffee, and firmly ignored the niggling worry. He decided to make crepes, because why the fuck not, and got out the crepe pan. Because of _course_ this kitchen was also stocked with just about every and any appliance he could ever want.

Breakfast and cleanup only delayed him until about 10AM, leaving his whole day wide open, like usual. Steve took his time going through the apartment and tidying and simply walking the perimeter, admiring the skyline. If he never admitted he was going stir crazy, then he wasn’t. Simple. Well, what did he have to complain about? His current bedroom was bigger than his studio that he came from (and had left four dead Hydra agents in) and the view _was_ spectacular. He had never been up this high before, so it shocked him when he first looked out.

He’d had… not necessarily a nightmare last night, but had dreamt of falling through the windows and feeling the cold rush of air and fighting the inability to breathe and waking up just before he hit the ocean. Concrete roads and metal surrounded Avengers Tower in the daytime, but Steve had dreamt of water, roaring, unforgiving waves and sharp, jagged rocks. He’d woken up to find he’d kicked off all the covers in his sleep and one of his socks, which left him chilled and uneasy.

Steve had been called a lot of things in his life, and superstitious had never been one of them. But at 3AM, when everything was quiet and still and the only thing he could hear was his breathing and heartbeat, unsure if there was another person for miles or if he’d gotten stuck inside his head and left to rot, it was hard not to read into dreams.

He hadn’t seen anyone in three days. The only person he’d talked to since then was Sam, but Sam was busy. Sam had more important things to attend to. Sam couldn’t revolve his entire life around one guy he’d only met once. In fact, Steve realized, he didn’t even know that much about Sam. Whenever they texted, Steve felt like all they talked about was _him_ , and whenever he asked about Sam’s life, Sam never said much. And that was fine! Sam didn’t owe him anything, after all. He bet it wasn’t even meant to be against Steve, since Sam was probably just reserved about his personal life and didn’t want to share with strangers. It was fine. They barely knew each other. Sam had no obligation to share anything with Steve.

It did make their relationship feel one-sided, and Steve’s skin crawled at the thought of being a burden to _another_ person. So he technically texted Sam on occasion, but it wasn’t much more than basic pleasantries. He hadn’t even told Sam that he had met Iron Man.

The thing was, Steve had always been more of recluse by nature. He was the introvert that the extroverted Bucky had to (sometimes literally) drag out of their apartment to have fun. And it was fun, not that Steve would ever readily admit it, for a short while. It’s just that Steve relaxed most while at home and really only his mother and Bucky didn’t put any social drain on him. But just because it was his _nature,_ it didn’t mean he was ready to commit being a full-time hermit. He still liked going on ridiculously early morning walks to watch the sunrise, to see the city wake itself up. Even if he didn’t speak, it invigorated him for a day of work and provided much needed inspiration. He loved the city and his neighborhood, down to every grimy, cigarette butt covered bus stop and pigeon poop stained dumpster. It breathed life into him at his worst and welcomed him home.

There wasn’t a stain or cigarette butt to be seen in this apartment. Here, he could only stare down at the world, removed from even fleeting moments of human interaction.

Dinnertime came around and Steve set a huge bowl of beef stroganoff and garlic bread outside of Bucky’s door. He stepped back, holding the margarita pizza he’d made for lunch that, predictably, had been left untouched. The sleek door leered back, elegant and cold. He thought, at the time, that this would be amazing, that everything would be fixed if he could get Bucky out of that tiny cell underneath SHIELD Headquarters.

Now he wasn’t so sure. A prison was a prison was a prison, after all, no matter how much he pretended otherwise.

And when Stark called him up to his lab that night, Steve denied the crushing relief he felt at being out of this apartment. He forced himself to slow, to rein back his eagerness, and still managed to go up to the 97th floor in record time. He paced up and down out of sight of Stark exactly two minutes to try to treasure this moment.

Steve understood how grossly unfair it was for him to be able to leave the apartment and Bucky wasn’t. Trying to excuse it away didn’t justify it. But damn, was he grateful.

Stark had been a _lot_ when they first met. The extrovert to top all extroverts, it grated on Steve after a while, since being in his presence sapped all of Steve’s energy. On a normal day (what was normal, anymore?) he and Stark probably wouldn’t have gotten along. That, or Steve would needed large breaks between hanging out. But just this once, Steve welcomed it with open arms.

As soon as Steve stepped through his line of vision Stark was off at the gates, _super_ excited to show Steve was he’d been working on, Steve would be _amazed_ at his _genius_ and spent ten minutes detailing how, where, and when he’d been when he’d come up with this idea. This was an especially amazing feat, since he talked at approximately 10,000 words a minute and never actually told Steve what it _was_.

Steve hadn’t gotten a word in yet, but didn’t really mind at the moment. Stark brandished his arms towards the tables, where about a dozen more robot dolls had been laid out, all in varying states in completion.

“See! I know you’re impressed. Now, I was thinking that—”

“ _Sir, there is a bank robbery in progress. I have already updated the location and have planned a fastest route for you.”_

Stark didn’t even blink. “JARVIS, my suit!” he said, already turning to the windows.

Steve watched as a structure opened on the opposite side of the lab. Red streaks flew by, attaching themselves to Stark’s body as the suit engulfed him. The windows slanted open and Iron Man took off into the evening sky.

The gust from Stark’s takeoff scattered smallest, lightest tools and ruffled Steve’s hair.

The windows closed, shutting off any sound from outside so securely Steve’s ears popped.

JARVIS killed the music and with it came deafening silence. In a span of mere seconds, he was left on his own in Stark’s lab while Stark went to go save the world. Stark didn’t even spare him a “see you later.”

Steve didn’t know why he was surprised.

Tony Stark was an Avenger. He was _Iron Man._ He helped people; he had to, at the drop of a hat. Steve could relate to that. He’d go too, if he could.

It was fine. Stark had probably brought him up here to paint more robot heads. He’d see Stark again, when Stark had time. It’s not like Steve had anywhere to be anytime soon, nor was he anywhere near the top of the priority list. Having an artist that would do your bidding anytime you needed them to was incredibly convenient for anyone, even if they weren’t the best. It would be okay. Somewhere between saving the world, running his incredibly successful business, and creating new and amazing technology, he’d squeeze Steve in someday. It was fine. Steve was lucky to be here in the first place, after all.

Steve walked with numb legs to the elevator. Once he stepped in, the lights shut off.

Right.

Iron Man.

You know.

In case you forgot.

~*~

If Sarah Rogers had to describe her son in one word, it would be perseverer. Fall down seven times, get up eight and all that.

“Your body may not be very strong,” she said, holding Steve to her, his body too warm from a fever the doctors weren’t sure he’d survive. “But God has gifted you with the strength of a warrior in the mind and soul. I’ve never seen anyone as strong as you, my love. I know you’ll pull through.”

He was twelve years old and supposed to be in school, but instead lay asleep in a hospital bed. Rheumatic fever, supposedly rare in developed countries, ravaged his body. The doctors speculated he contracted it due to his frequency of illnesses. He’d constantly battled this year against two different strep infections and a sinus infection, too close together for his immune system to fully recover. It felt like he’d spent more time out of school than in it at that point.

8th grade had been rough for him and on his body. Because of his July birthday, he was younger than most of his peers, but also frailer and smaller than most of them too and that made him a target. Nearly every single one of his peers was bigger than him, though it wasn’t hard. He only stood at 4’6” and a skinny 82 pounds. She tried everything she could to get him to eat, but he just couldn’t seem to put any weight on.

To Steve, his swollen and aching joints were what what sucked most about this new illness, because they made it hard to draw. That and he couldn’t go outside and play with Bucky, even though the weather was finally turning.

Sarah worried for his heart. As a nurse, she knew how many problems this fever could cause her son later on. He would need to take antibiotics for the next decade to prevent it from reoccurring if he — no, _when_ he fought off the fever. She placed her hand over his chest, knowing that the EKG machine would pick up on the smallest change, but needing the touch as reassurance.

She brushed the hair back and kissed his forehead. She would have to leave soon, since her break was nearly over. She nearly had given up as a nurse during her schooling, nearly lost her way, but she had trusted the Lord’s guidance and got her degree. She thanked the Lord everyday for her fortune at this hospital. Without it, her job and the medical insurance that came with it, she would be buried up to her neck in debt from medical bills. It took her long enough to pay the debts from Joseph’s funeral.

His lost still left her breathless sometimes, cold and empty from the inside out. They’d been high school sweethearts, married when they were nineteen. Steve had come a year later, six weeks early and only five pounds four ounces. He’d spent two weeks in the hospital, only to be brought back a month later due to breathing issues.

Little did they know that this would set the stage for Steve’s entire life. Joseph hadn’t worried at the time, however, bright and optimistic about their little family. While he hadn’t been very tall, only about 5’8” but strong, so he was so sure little Steve would grow to look just like him. Steve had gotten Sarah’s fair hair, but Joseph’s eyes and nose, and he cried when he first held tiny Steve in his arms.

Sarah never knew she could feel so much love in her body. Nor did she know how it would feel when her love was ripped away from her.

She checked her watch. Just five minutes left of her break.

Joseph was with God in Heaven and watched over them, and had been since Steve was eighteen months old. She could see him every time Steve set his jaw, every time he scrunched his nose in laughter, every time he came home after he’d gotten into a fight, “but Ma! He was picking on her! What was I supposed to do?”

He’d gotten his strong sense of morality from Joseph, no doubt, but his fiery temper was all Sarah. Combined led to Steve to step in wherever he saw unfairness and refuse to back down if it turned physical. She thanked God often for sending them Bucky, since Bucky tagged along with Steve and had his back every time. Some of the old ladies at Church might not want her to associate so strongly with Jewish people, but it was now the 21st century and there are some things that needed to be let go in her (very loud) opinion. Besides, she wasn’t about to deprive her son of the only friend he’d ever had because of some old wrinkled prunes that believed in such nonsense and prejudices.

Her pager beeped, signaling the end of her break. She kissed Steve’s forehead one last time, trying to transfer strength through her touch. She left the quiet room and returned to her duties.

Steve’s fever broke for good two weeks later, but had missed about a third of 8th grade and the school told him he was going to have to repeat the year.

Steve had been outraged. “Bucky is _not_ going to high school without me,” he said, and demanded that he be able to make up what he missed over the summer. He spent long hours in either the library or the hospital waiting for Sarah’s shift to end, doggedly making his way through all of his course work.

Bucky, bless his heart, helped Steve along and allowed Steve to check his work against what Bucky had already completed. Sarah knew that the boys would much rather be playing outside or video games, but also knew hardly anything could deter Steve once he set his mind to do something.

Which is why it hurt so much when Sarah got her diagnosis when Steve was only seventeen. What she thought was just mild intestinal pain, some light cramping, turned out to be stomach cancer. She was Stage 4 by the time they found out. Nothing they could do.

Chemo and God gave her six precious more months with her boys than the doctors predicted, lived long enough for her to celebrate Steve’s eighteenth birthday. Worth every bit of pain and nausea the treatment gave her.

She’d seen her boys grow up and become so strong. Steve, surviving every illness life threw at him despite the doctor’s predictions, and Bucky, losing his whole family at so young.

“My sweet sunshine boy,” she whispered, voice nearly gone. This was the last thing she’d ever say to him. “You shine so brightly, my love. No matter what comes your way, know that I love you and always will.”

He looked at her with Joseph’s eyes, hardened and aged beyond his years.

“I love you too Ma,” he said and gripped her hand tightly. “I’m gonna miss you so much.”

She was too weak to respond, slipping back into unconsciousness. Her last thoughts were a prayer to God to look after her son.

~*~

So Steve persevered.

He got knocked down again, but so what? He didn’t need to have a functioning body to be useful. He set a schedule for himself and by God and his mother in Heaven, he wasn’t going to be shoved aside again.

His mind was strong, his mother had been right about that. He’d been able to get through everything just on will power alone. Not like he’d have much other choice, seeing as his body tried to kill him every year. Or rather, tried so desperately to keep him alive that it nearly committed suicide.

That’s what a fever was, in the end. The body raised its temperature to kill the virus or bacteria, and if it’s lucky the infection dies. If it wasn’t, the body ended up killing itself in the process.

So Steve threw himself into his new task and set a grueling schedule for himself when he got back from Stark’s lab. He wasn’t going to let himself wallow in self-pity. And, in all honestly, he much preferred being busy. He should have done it sooner.

06:00 – wake up  
06:05 – breakfast  
07:00 – study Russian  
08:30 – break  
08:45 – study German  
10:15 – break  
10:30 – study ASL  
12:00 – lunch  
13:00 – work on commissions  
18:00 – dinner  
19:00 – refresher on Russian  
19:30 – refresher on German  
20:00 – refresher on ASL  
20:30 – read  
23:00 – shower  
23:15 – sleep

He spent that night preparing for the next day. He gathered materials on the languages, YouTube videos, free tutorials, and lesson plans from college classes. He found a few free books online and downloadable worksheets. Learning Spanish with his neighbor Señora Capello taught him a lot on how best to learn a language.

Going through this process again brought him back to sitting in her apartment, in her kitchen stocked with spices he couldn’t eat, the crooning voice of her favorite singer, José José, in the background. She was a force to be trifled with and made some _excellent_ hot chocolate. They gossiped about their favorite telenovelas and about their respective coworkers in Spanglish, both trying to grasp the language as best they could. Sometimes her children would join in, Carmen and the twins, Esteban and Gabriel. Carmen at that point was twelve years old and too _sensible_ and _adult_ for silliness _,_ but the twins, only ten, cracked Steve up with their mischief.

He missed his neighbors something fierce. He had called his next-door neighbor Jessie while he was still in the hospital and on a lot of pain meds to make sure that she was okay. She spent ten minutes bitching him out about not calling sooner and did he _know_ how worried they all were?

Barton told him that he was allowed to contact them, but it still seemed dangerous. He didn’t take lightly how goddamn lucky it was that none of them were shot, that no errant bullets made it through the walls and into their hearts.

He dreamt of that too, sometimes. In his lonely, quiet room, it was all too easy to envision his neighbors dead instead of the Hydra agents.

He couldn’t explain much of anything, all highly classified information, and even what he was allowed to talk about he couldn’t put the words together. Jessie, incredibly smart and incredibly good at detecting bullshit, saw through what he didn’t say. Near the end of the call she got quiet.

“You’re not coming back, are you.”

It wasn’t a question. Steve, hyped up on pain meds and near the end of his emotional rope, hadn’t answered lest he breakdown.

“Damien’s gonna miss you.”

He pulled the phone away from his ear so he could clear his throat. It took him a few moments before he could answer.

“I know. I’m gonna miss him too. Both of you.”

They’d hung up soon after, and just like that, everything Steve had known for the past seven years had ended.

The Steve of today swallowed down the emptiness of in his gut as the last worksheet he needed for tomorrow downloaded. He closed his computer and began getting ready for bed.

When one door closes, another opens, after all.

~*~

Steve’s morning, like a lot of mornings in his life, was interrupted by a doctor’s visit.

He hadn’t slept well the night before and he woke up with crusty eyes and a foggy head. He drank two cups off coffee in attempt to make his upper motor functions boot up, but all the caffeine ended up doing was make his heart pound and hands shake.

Oh well. He wasn’t about to let that stand in his way. He made some omelets for breakfast, but couldn’t eat any of it himself. The smell made him nauseous, so he cleaned up as quickly as he could and left the kitchen. He shrugged it off. He hadn’t eaten breakfast most days before moving here, why start now?

He started by making notecards of the Russian alphabet, the Cyrillic characters on one side and their English phonetic pronunciation on the other. He spent the entire hour and a half just flipping through and shuffling through the cards, knowing the only way to get comfortable was just a shit ton of repetition. He watched several youtube videos on learning the alphabet as well, to make sure he was saying everything correctly.

He’d just started looking through grammatical structures of German sentences when JARVIS interrupted, saying that it was time for his scheduled doctor’s appointment.

Steve didn’t know he had a doctor’s appointment. He aught to be used to being told nothing and toted around like a bag a beans with nothing better to do, but it still got under his skin in the worst way. Then again, maybe he didn’t want to become complacent in just following orders and waiting.

He took the elevator to the 36th floor. Couldn’t be any worse than it has been, right?

~*~

Steve should’ve known better than to jinx himself.

He did get his cast off, which was nice. His left arm was still useless after having been in a sling for so long, and Steve couldn’t help but zone out a little at the doctor describing exercises he could do to strengthen it back up. Yeah, pal, he _knew_ that. This wasn’t his first rodeo.

Because of further testing and other complications that he refused to think about, he didn’t get back to the apartment until well after 3PM, and he was so exhausted he didn’t feel like making much of anything for lunch.

Except as he made his way past to his room, he found Barton in the kitchen staring into the fridge. Barton noticed Steve before he was able to make a sneaky escape.

“Well look who it is! How’d it go?”

Wasn’t he just about to beg someone to talk to him yesterday? Ugh. All he wanted to do was lie down somewhere.

Steve shrugged noncommittally. “Got my cast off.”

“You were there a long time for just getting your cast off.”

“Barton, I know you’ve seen my medical history. No doctor’s appointment has ever lasted under two hours.”

“I guess so. Are you gonna make lunch? I’m starved.” Barton hopped up on the kitchen island. “Y’know, I thought I was gonna hate being stuck here, but it’s nice having a personal chef. I finally get the appeal.”

Steve bit back some scathing remarks and opened the fridge with more force than necessary. He had a schedule. He had _shit_ to do. He didn’t have time to make _lunch_.

It took him a few seconds before he could answer Barton without sounding snappy. His schedule had already been ruined for the day, anyway. Nothing he could do but start again tomorrow.

“Never had a full fridge or kitchen before. Decided to make use of it while I could.”

“Oh god don’t I _know,_ ” Barton agreed. “I still don’t know how to cook for shit besides, like, Spaghettios and cereal.”

“I can’t eat Spaghettios anymore. I think I ate that for dinner nearly every night between 4th and 6th grade.”

“ _Why_ would you do that to yourself?”

“It was one of, like, four things that we found that wouldn’t upset my stomach. I ate that and lots of saltine crackers.”

He couldn’t eat Spaghettios anymore, maybe, but that put him in the mood for something warm and tomato-y. He decided on grilled cheese with tomato basil soup, a decision in which Barton nearly salivated over.

Barton actually made fairly good company, and they bonded over being poor. Although he couldn’t top actually running away to join the circus, which he still couldn’t tell if Barton was just pulling one over on him or not. It did make him feel better that Barton still wasn’t used to such extravagance either and still had the tendency to hoard food and supplies in case something were to happen.

Barton moaned something obscene over Steve’s grilled cheese and ate two sandwiches and three bowls of soup while Steve picked at his own meal. He also managed to spill several spoonfuls of soup down his front because he gestured as he spoke. Steve brushed off Barton’s compliments of “cooking mastery” and “god-like ability with a frying pan,” because really, he just followed the instructions, seriously, thank the internet instead.

The good humor died down when Steve began plating some food for Bucky.

“You know he’s not gonna eat that, right?”

Steve focused on the food and not Barton, who sounded like he knew a little too much at the moment.

“He doesn’t have to eat it. I’m just showing that it’s there if he wants it.”

“Ri—ight,” Barton said, drawing out the word. He sighed, flopping back in his chair. “Ugh. I’m so pregnant with a food baby right now. I think I might nap after this.”

Steve side-eyed him, because ‘food baby’? What? But ignored him in favor of walking to Bucky’s room. The omelet from the morning lay untouched at the door. He held the bowl of soup precariously in one hand like a server in a restaurant, crouching down low in order to set the plate of grilled cheese down. His knees shook with the effort of just one squat, because that’s how embarrassingly weak his body was, when the door flung open.

It happened to fast that Steve wasn’t sure what actually knocked him over — just that the next thing he knew he was flat on his ass on the ground with hot soup poured down his front and over his lap.

He blinked in surprise, frozen like a deer in headlights as he looked up and Bucky was standing there, half hidden from the darkness of his room.

“Stop… just stop — doing — that,” Bucky said haltingly, a little wheezy like he was out of breath, before slamming the door shut.

Steve stared at the door, still trying to catch up with what happened. He only noticed Barton when he touched his shoulder.

“What?” he asked, somewhat aware that Barton had said something.

“I asked if you’re alright.”

Barton hovered next to him, crowding him.

“Oh. Yeah, fine.”

Barton narrowed his eyes. “You sure?”

“Well, food’s ruined, that sucks,” he said. Steve was only partly in charge of what was coming out of his mouth. “Good thing I needed to laundry anyway.”

No he didn’t, he did laundry yesterday.

It took a few moments for his brain to catch up and reconnect to the rest of his body. He scooped as much of the soup off his lap and back into the bowl as he could, and picked up the scattered sandwiches on to the plate. Barton helped him stand up.

Steve, careful not to touch anything, made his way to his bathroom. Tomato soup covered his front, half his face, and his jeans. He quickly stripped, throwing the effected clothes into the shower, and wiped his skin off as best he could. Everything still reeked of tomato, however, making his stomach roll, so he just decided to jump into the shower himself and washed everything.

It was fine. Bucky just got tired of him leaving food out. No biggie. Steve would just leave leftovers in the fridge, in case anyone wanted to eat them. Hey, at least he knew for sure that Bucky was here, right? That was good. Maybe he wasn’t eating the food that Steve left, but in the short glimpse he’d gotten, it didn’t look like Bucky was underfed. He must just eat on his own and didn’t need Steve for that.

It was fine. Steve was fine. It was probably just an accident. Steve should just be happy that Bucky spoke to him at all.

The red tomato sauce swirled down the drain, and when Steve could no longer smell it, he stepped back out.

The floor was clear of sauce and food when he left his room and the dishes were done and in the drying rack. Barton must have taken care of it, but the man himself was nowhere in sight.

Silence reigned again, pressing down on his ears.

Well, it was a good time to read. Too many people and too much noise was just a distraction, anyway. It was fine. Better, even.

He stepped back into his room and opened his laptop. He really should take care of washing his clothes before the stains set in, but it would be fine for a few minutes. Just a few minutes to let him get through the first chapter of _Rules For Radicals_ and then he’d take care of it. He just needed a minute.

He firmly ignored the tremors in his hands and how hard it was to breathe, suddenly. It was fine. He was fine. He just needed a minute. He was fine.

If he repeated that often enough, it would have to come true, after all.

~*~

Steve used to dread coming to school, but now it was okay, because he had Bucky and Bucky was his best friend and they did _everything_ together.

Steve never really had any friends, ’cause he was short and small and got picked on by the bigger kids. Bucky didn’t care. Bucky was the new kid, since his dad had gotten a new job and he had to move school districts because of it. Steve didn’t really care why Bucky was there, but was really glad that he was.

Bucky sometimes missed his old friends, and that made Steve feel a little bad since Steve was so happy that Bucky had moved, but then Bucky would say that they should play Jedis and then it was okay again.

Bucky had a baby sister too, who was only five and Bucky walked her down to the kindergarten classroom before he came to their fifth grade classroom. Bucky thought that she was annoying, but Steve was so jealous. He wanted a sibling, but didn’t tell anyone. His Ma would get sad and he didn’t want his Ma to get sad. She was the best Ma in the _world._

His Ma also liked Bucky. She tried her best to hide her surprise when Steve came home saying how he’d made a _friend_ and that could he come over for a sleepover, _please_? She’d been really happy and had promised to let Bucky come over during the weekend. Steve had been about to _burst_ he’d been so excited.

They’d done just about everything together since, and he got picked on less since he wasn’t the weird loner kid anymore and Bucky was nice. Everything was better with Bucky around, since he was really funny and maybe didn’t draw as good but he liked spaceships and Star Wars a lot so that was cool. He also showed Steve how to make a farting noise by blowing into his hands and Steve nearly fell over he laughed so hard.

But now the summer was ending soon, and they were going to start middle school and he was nervous. Steve didn’t admit it, because he wasn’t a _fraidy-cat,_ so he kept his mouth shut. But everyone kept talking about how everything changes once you got to middle school. Even the other nurses at the hospital said that people change a lot and friend groups change and people start getting _old_ and becoming _adults._

Steve didn’t want his friend group to change. He didn’t even have enough friends to call it a group. He just had Bucky, and if Bucky stopped being his friend, he didn’t have anyone left.

Steve finally turned eleven, summer finally ended, and he and Bucky entered the 6th grade.

At first, in the chaos of being in a new school with a bunch of new older kids, they clung together since they were friends and that’s what friends did. They still hung out and had sleepovers and Steve and his Ma got invited to Thanksgiving at the Barnes’. His Ma made some cheesy potatoes but didn’t put any bacon in it like she sometimes did because Bucky and his family ate kosher. Steve wasn’t really sure what that meant or why they couldn’t eat bacon. When he asked Bucky, he just said “ ’cause God told us not to,” and left it at that. Steve, having gone to Church near every Sunday, had gotten used to answers like that.

Winter really kicked in then, and his Ma made him be extra careful about dressing for outside. They celebrated Becca’s sixth birthday and Steve made sure to take extra care making Bucky’s Hanukkah present. Bucky said that they got eight presents, but Bucky’s mom said that Steve only had to get him one present because Bucky only got him one present. So Steve very carefully drew a comic of them both searching for aliens in with Mulder and Scully and Bucky got him a new book called _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone_ and it was awesome.

Then they went back to school and Bucky decided he wanted to join the baseball team. Steve wanted to join too, but they didn’t want someone so shrimpy on their team. This meant that Bucky had practice and couldn’t hang out with Steve so much, but that was okay, because Steve could come to his games and cheer him on.

But then Bucky became friends with the other kids on the baseball team, and sometimes he asked if he could sit with them instead of Steve at lunch sometimes. Steve brushed it off, saying that he could go to the library and study like Hermione did in the book Bucky got him. And sometimes Bucky couldn’t hang out on the weekend because his other friends were having a sleepover. That was okay too, since Steve got to hang out with his Ma some more. And they still hung out whenever they could, and Bucky still sat with him in class, and it was okay.

Steve worried that this is what everybody meant that people would grow up and maybe him and Bucky weren’t meant to be friends as grownups. It seemed that every time he wanted to hang out with Bucky it was, “oh I’m sorry Steve! I’m actually hanging out with the team. Next weekend, I promise!”

So Steve tried to grow on his own, too, since he had only known Bucky for like a year and a half and had been on his own for longer so he could do it again.

He talked to some kids in his class and sat with a chubby boy named Morgan who got picked on sometimes. Morgan liked Steve because Steve stood up for him when nobody else did, and didn’t make fun of him if he wasn’t as fast as the other boys. Steve was in the same boat, just skinny as a stick and with bad asthma, so they got on okay. Morgan wasn’t Bucky, but Bucky had other friends and so could Steve.

But then one day at lunch, one of the bigger boys on the baseball team flipped Steve’s lunch tray into his face.

“ _Oops,_ ” he said, although it was clearly not an accident.

His name was Doug and Steve had gone to elementary school with him. He liked to bully Steve a lot. The table with the baseball team erupted into laughter and Steve couldn’t bear to look if Bucky was laughing with them or not.

Steve flushed red with anger and grabbed the soggy piece of pizza on his plate and shoved it in Doug’s stupid face just as Bucky appeared behind him and dumped a carton of milk over his head.

The whole lunchroom was in an uproar at that point, and all three of them got sent to the principal’s office, but Steve caught Bucky’s eye and couldn’t stop grinning.

They got detention, but they’d be spending it together, and that was okay. After they left the principal’s office, they went to the bathroom to cleanup.

“Thanks for that,” Steve said.

“Doug is pretty mean to everyone, even me sometimes. I’m not friends with him, I promise,” Bucky said.

“I know, Buck.”

They grinned at each other and Steve felt better than he had in weeks, even if his shirt was greasy and now he didn’t have a lunch. Bucky stood up for him instead of laughing, and that was worth even doing laundry.

They left the bathroom and headed back to the lunchroom, but before they made it inside, Bucky put a hand on his shoulder and stopped them.

“I mean it Steve. You’re my best friend and we’ll be best friends _forever_. No matter what anyone says.” He lifted his pinky finger. “Pinky swear that we’ll be together until — until the end of the line.”

Steve hooked his pinky with Bucky’s and took a deep breath, his heart about to burst. “I pinky swear that I’m with you ’til the end of the line.”

They sat together for lunch that day and Bucky shared his pretzels with Steve because Steve didn’t have a lunch now and that’s what best friends did.

They made it through middle school and puberty and _girls_ (and guys, for Steve) only for people to say the same thing about high school, about how everyone grew up and changed. Steve didn’t have the same fear that he had going into sixth grade. He spent the summer making up coursework with Bucky at his side, because that’s how it was, and how it was always going to be, until the end of the line. They were always going to be best friends and nothing, not even Steve’s illnesses, could keep them apart.

And if Steve was a little bit in love with his best friend, well, that was okay too. As long as he had Bucky and his Ma, he could do anything in the world.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the good news is that i've got the next chapter mostly done. the bad news is that it's also sad. 
> 
> i'm agentscarters on tumblr!!!


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